Katy’s sleeping 
next to me
on the futon,
head lolling
on her shoulder.
Erik sits across
in the arm chair,
grinning.
I’m flipping
through a book
on pack mules
in the 80s.
And Clancey
kneels between us,
building a lego
horse trailer
with an old
Ford Bronco,
as Erik describes it.
There are lemonade 
glasses all around
the room, perched
on arm rests
and side tables.
The air unit
in the window
is blowing,
mercifully.
And the only
noise above the fan
is the constant
whistle of a boy 
at work.